mistakes were made, and things were said, and none of us knew how to love life properly.

we used to say that we're unhappyand that we tried and tried and tried but lied.that we did our best to change our state of misery,to become better people for the people in our homes,but we know now that wasn't true.

I never grabbed your arm while sinking in my dreams,I never screamed while I was awake, but only in my sleep,I was in pain my entire life. I never knew how to handle pain.I never called it out. I carried it with me. the pain was sharp.I wasn't. my edges got torn. there were fingerprints all over my face and body. my house was left empty. clean. not a soul inside. not a tear. I always dreamt of drowning. the sea was dreaming of dying inside me, being hyper ventilated. being choked with air and dryness.

you never told me that I was draining all the joy from your lifeyou never brought wine, nor cookies, nor take-away.the only thing you carried around in a doggie bag, after a dinner out at the restaurant, was you soul. or, what was left of it afterboth of us fed from it.you never cried in your sleep, but only while you were awake,you tried to warn me you were thunder, but I never got to hear the end of your words.you never left, you never came, you were always in my heart.

we didn't make each other unhappier, but we didn't manage to do it the other way, either.

we were never sorry. we never got to regret the ride.we were in this together. all in. all ice. we are the ones that cannot be forgiven, we are the east and the west,the Nile and the Amazon, each on his own continent,together on our own Earth,none of us in danger of ever becoming wadi,

we were music.beautiful classical music that sounds great on its own but is awful if you play it all at once..if you push through the speakers with Bach,add up Vivaldi, then Brahms, then Debussy, then throw in a little bit of Grieg, then Enescu, then salt things up with Puccini and, to spice things up, add just a pinch of Kennedy.

what happens to people like us? the same thing that happens when people like us. we get lost.in a room full of people, we become invisible- like air.the only thing that proves that we still existis all the dustthat travels through us.we never liked them parties,we never really wanted to be there,yet we kept coming back, hopingto get it right this time.wishing to be a little more wiser this time around,wearing our best clothes and the lowest self-esteem.

we are just so ******* happy to be alive. sorry. what I meant to say was "we are just so ******* less unhappy to be alive!"

things were made, and mistakes were said, and none of us knew how to live love properly.

we're gonna die at some pointand all that we're gonna leave behind us is a bunch ofbad reviews and 2 star ratingsfor restaurants that didn't treat us right,for uber drivers that were too quiet or too loud,and airline companies that were responsible for 16 long hours in an airport with too much light and no air.

the day will come and none of us will be ready,even though some might lie about it, with a cold smile on their face.there will be no bargaining then, all the money in the world will be as useless as a pair of flip-flops to a legless person.for sure, we'll regret using the expression "no regrets!" too often, instead of accepting our vulnerabilities and our imperfections.

we're gonna die seeing our mother's smile and hearing our father laughter, from the day we were born.just like then, we won't know for sure whether this is the beginning or the endwhether we are leaving a world or coming into another.

we're gonna hope to use our last breath for something memorable,something that won't make us not get a good death's sleep,keeping us awake in a homemade YouTube video.we're gonna wish that someone finds all of our passwordsand breaks into our emails and social media accounts to realize that we were geniuses, or something like that and we're gonna look forwardto not being successful and not seeing anyone cry over something that we said while we were drunk or, worse..

there's nothing more annoying than a come-back to an argument that comes too late,the one great idea that could shut down anyone if it would appear in the middle of a fight, and not afterwards. always afterwards.when the quarrel initiators are already tucked up in bed, covered in wet dreams and solitude.nothing for you to do. no hour is decent enough for you to call them in the middle of the night,shouting your retort, then hanging up the phone and laughing like a crazy person.that's how after-death must feel like. a smart answer that comes too late and that no one gets to hear.

our bodies start dying from the day we are born,little by little, small chunks of tissue getting rid of our existence,making us less appealing, less ripe.our bodies become dumber and dumber every day and start throwing emotional **** everywhere, hoping to make others mad,and not care as much about us, near the end. in a way, it's a form of protection.

we're gonna live through other people's deaths,we're gonna be "survivors" and "carriers of their memory"we're gonna try and appear strong for their closest ones,even though we will forever be broken on the inside after they become cool, underground.

as we grow older, we believe that death is more about us than the one leaving.It's possible that we didn't even get to meet him personally, but he "left a great impression on us", from his real friends' stories.it's possible that we randomly cross paths with a funeral cortege of some unlucky strangerand we would still believe that it's about us.every time we stumble upon it from an observer's point of view, we cannot stopthinking that it could have been us in that box, forceless, incapable of protesting against the tieor the flowers that we are/were so allergic to.we get lost in our mind, near the coffin and our eyes start to glowand lose liquid.every time someone dies, it's always about us. at least, for a couple of seconds or days.

when we die, or are about to die, we find out that death is not at all about us.it's about those that are left behind, the above mentioned "survivors". we begin to worry about them,to fear that there's no fresh milk in the fridge, no gas in the car tank,that no one took out the garbage, nor fed the cat,we are about to leave life under the impression that we forgot the fire on.every time we die, it's never about us. at least, up until the last seconds.

there's no chance in hell that heaven's gonna accept this kind of language!maybe the subtitle won't work for this part and I'll get off the hook.I was thinking that one of the greatest penalties God could give to a feeble-minded person like me would be the possibility to choose between the infernal region and paradise.I would end up in a very familiar situation, experiencing the purgatory of my afterlife,in the same way I did in my entire earthly existence, not being able to pick a side,make a decision, take a left or a right.. without overthinking it too much.

my face is like an open book andeveryone knows exactly where the last person left off.there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors. no.all the words and feelings are out there, on the page and they start screaming at the first contact with the outside world.

I have no covers, no pdf format, no index, no once in a lifetime offer you can’t miss.

I only come with a story, that some people enjoy reading,that others hate (and decide to wait for the movie).the main character is a guy that’s neither good nor bad, that lives inside a human head,but always gets beaten around by a human heart.

I’m curious about that specific moment when it was decided that we love with our heart and not with our brain, or leg, or knee.

you may be the main thing in the menu at one point, the hottest dish in the restaurant but you know that you’ll always gonna be someone else’s sloppy seconds.

today, a kid on the metro asked mewhy do we keep saying „may God save us”? when really, it’s up to us to save HIM?I didn’t know what to say.I didn’t know how to explain to him that sometimes I’m afraid to believe in something that doesn’t feel like belief worthy.. that I don’t understand how certain things happen.. that I can hardly save a WORD file after a day’s work, and he’s proposing me to save S̶A̶N̶T̶A̶ .. GOD.I didn't have the means to lie, to be wise, to be strong..I couldn’t let go of the iron bar and my smile had no teeth to show, no lips to uncover.

but I guess he knew all of that.my face is like an open book. not the holy one!with me there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors. no..

Let's NOT forget how fragile we are,with all our fears and problems,staring at a delicate image of us,while others gaze at the sky.

we used to leave our homes thinking that we’re going to change the world,but all we do now is close the door behind usthinking that we’re going to change two metros and three buses on our wayto work.

Fake fears.False problems.Unreal image.The only thing that’s fragile in the room is the mirror.

our vulnerability is one of our main strengths, our ugliness is, actually, the beauty that others seek for,our “shower/grower”, “pear/apple”, “spit/swallow”, “oral/normal” abilities are not on anyone’s interest list, other than the one made-up in our head

I'm waiting for a car that will never cometo take me to a place that doesn't exist.

I'm constantly looking at a world that has nothing to show but enjoys being watched,like a ****** - exhibitionist relationship. Match made in heaven.Heaven made in Adobe Photoshop CS 6.

I'm eager to create some art that won't change anyonebut will cost a lot of money. ~ I'm willing to settle for no money and will change at least one~

I'm constantly trying to reach out to people that get higher up the mountain,each on his own personal journey. Untouchable. Distant.Not having the slightest clue that there's someoneon their trail, on the narrow forest path.

I'm looking for ways to make others happybut, in the process, I'm becoming sadder every day.Even though my state of mind is low, it's not making me deep. I never said I was deep.

I'm not an ocean of wisdom or anything like this.Come to think about it, I'm not a huge fan of water, not being a good swimmer and everything..

I don't think I have anything in common with the sea, even though I was told I can easily suffocate others with my worries, sorrows and disbelief.

I'm working on finding a job that doesn't feel like workand let's you smile,beyond an annual cocktail event, in a fancy club, with drunk employees of the monththat are trying all night to find ways to bang each other without their significant others ever finding out,without knowing what guilt means..Some of them will end up home, with a clean shirt and a ***** conscience. For others, it won't ever feel like home.

I'm playing the game of hating the playerand I think they're gonna award me the MVP titleif I continue to not love myself.

I'm trying to end this poem in style,but I'm afraid I won't be able to, 'cause I think my car has arrived.

He didn't feel like getting any of his thoughts out into the world anymore.He felt that nothing mattered and that his presence was defined only by the clothes he wore and not by the words that wore him out.

He started wearing shirts. Up 'til the last button.He became numb and all of his dumb fears became bravein one instance.

No one recognized his face anymore.. for a while now. They were concentrating on other things,and when he finally recognized the truth that was staring at him from the mirror, he decided to hit the "snooze" button.

He couldn't find any reason to get out of bed in the morning, nor to go to sleep at night. He was in limbo, in a purgatorial state of mind,with one foot set in irrelevance and the other one stepping in the **** of inadequacy.

He felt weak and small, although he was never thin, nor fit.

He still loved everyone and wanted more from them, even though nobody wanted more of him.

He often felt like the screaming guy in Munch's painting- surrounded by color, light and everyone's rear end - Oh, what a wonderful state of mind!

He stopped setting up his alarm. It felt useless - everything had already happened, anyhow.His life started showing the MUTE button in the corner of his internal screen.

He suddenly became very quiet but despite all the silence that was surrounding him NOW, there was a lot of noise in his head.

I am a simple man –I still enjoy the lost art of washing your hands before and after using the bathroom,I find courage in the occasionally tap on the back,when everything goes dark, and the back alley looks like a modern piece of art.I try not to live the same day over and over again, but,somehow, I end up making the same mistakes,closing all the doors that are left openfor me.I’m never early to a party.I’m never late, either. I just don’t get invited anymore.When I was little, I was mesmerized by the choir of voices in my head – now I’m just irritated by their meaningless noise.The 4 rooms seem smaller and things are moving like crazy – it’s like an earthquake inside this heart of mine that’s behaving from time to time like a lady with high heels and low standards.

I am a simple man – I manage to complicate everything in the simplest way.

You end up lying in your bed, making eye contact with the ceiling,random feelings running through your mind.You’re thinking that they can easily be part of a great poem – one that you’ve always wanted to write, one that will make you proud – probably the only REAL poem that you’ll be able to write in your life.

You start to get cold. You get up and fetch an extra blanket. And some thicker pajamas.You get all curled up in your attempt to fall asleep. You are still cold. Maybe you’re dying!?!

You take your phone and google sudden death symptomsChest Pain.Breathlessness.Palpitations.Dizziness.Fainting.Nothing about being cold. Maybe you’re finally becoming an adult and you’re transforming into this cold blood grown-up that doesn’t give a **** about anything anyone has to say.Yeah! That must be it!

You turn and turn and turnand end up on your stomach,smothering an old pillow under your right arm andyour inability to become someone under the other one.Sleep refuses to penetrate you, even though you’ve clearly sent him signals across the table all night long.You even laughed at all his jokes, you touched his knee,you’ve certainly made yourself available to him!Nothing! You get blue dreams. Huge, round, wide awake dreams, Filled up with testosterone and lust.

It’s 3.34 AM.At this point, you’re in the bathroom,Eating up the latest Ikea catalogue.Tomorrow, you will wake up alone in your head, like a polaroid picture that gets stuck inside the big camera – you will wake up without falling asleep.Tomorrow is today.

You get in the shrink’s office without knocking.What’s wrong? he says.You don’t answer.He looks at the quiet version of you for an entire hour and comes up with a diagnostic for your problem.He even writes it down so you wouldn’t forget: Dream Paralysis - Powerlessness of imagining true life. Impossibility of living fake dreams every day.Am I right?You don’t answer.

He isn’t right.You aren’t alright.

You pay up and go.Poker would have been fairer for you at this point.***** it!

You get back home.You’re tired of trying to fall asleep so you decide to climb.You’ll try to get on top of your dreamsand sleep won’t try to ******* in any other position!

Tonight’s gonna be one of those nights...This is gonna be one of those poems.

Here’s to all the people that photobomb my holiday pictures,unsuspecting exhibitionists in my summer memories.After a while, I become fonder of them than of the places I’ve visited.They now seem to know me better than most of my friends and relatives,we start sharing secrets and unspeakable thoughts,we become connected by an invisible red line, that passes through all the virtual mess and intimate celluloid of our afterlife.

I’m sure that somewhere,in Russia, or maybe in the Czech Republic, there’s some poor *** schmuck that’s working up the nerve to ask me out for a drink or for some pasta,not caring that I’m rushing through his photo, on my way to a public restroom,or a bar that serves all you can eat, drink and love.

The photos holding the proof of my existence in a certain momentare facing the ground, while their owners rehearse their speech in front of the mirror,leaving me and all the other tourists through life behind the black hole library shelf,in perfect equilibrium,not knowing if I’m coming or leaving - an impersonal group of pixels and dots, on a white piece of character.

Here’s to all the strangers in my heart!Here’s to all the hearts to whom I’m a stranger!

I always wondered what it would be like if, suddenly, one of those "famous internet people" would start liking me,hitting each and every one of my posts with one of their virtual emoji reactions,sharing my words and my soul all over their sordid walls,making me trendy and clickable,part of the same pretentious content that they're always displaying.

Will I feel sick (like I do every time I read what they're sayin' in their trendsetter social media universe) or will I feel proud?

Will I think that is a terrible waste of good procrastination or will I smile?

Will I roll my eyes, after looking at their "common garbage" or will I take a deep smell of the "beautiful bit flower that they seeded in their garden"?

You always said you believed in people,even though they didn't always had faith in you.

You also said that your brain does not believe in a primordial God but that your heart does.It was always a matter of proximity, with the brain being closer to the mouth and pushing all of its messages..the right messages.

You said that you weren't convinced by the making of the cross sign because it started with the brain and ended with the heart - people always remember the last part and never the beginningyou said.

But I knew you had it in you - the words in the prayers you mumbled on the metro, hoping that no suicide bomber went in the same direction,in that moment,helped you have a pleasant journey.Yeah, I heard you.It convinced me to not push the button.

the words came from the heart and, by the time you got to the end of it, your brain would have no other choice but to surrender.

Sometimes I Shazam random songs.I don't even have to like'em or anything..I just do it.Press the big blue button and wait for it to do its job.I'm always sad when it says it's sorry and returns no result."They didn't quite catch that. Try again". Who does?

Sometimes I Shazam random noises on the metro,Hoping it will pick up the coolest soundtrack of a movie I'm in,Just before the credits,When everything goes dark - but not because of a random suicide bomber that hates life and wants revenge or something.It returns no results and the TV suddenly goes louder in my head and there are 23 victims and we're all posting kittens on Facebook to show that we're not afraid.

Sometimes I Shazam my parents voiceswhile they're telling me how their day wentand I discover really cool indie artiststhat make me listen to their work in a loop.

Once, I Shazamed your heartbeat while you were sleeping.It returned my name.Can't remember the album, but it had a nice cover photo.

I see great ***** every dayin the subwayand, suddenly, my favorite Hitchcock movie changes fromRear Window to Vertigo.The movement of the train calms me down and I fall asleep quickly,dreaming that I'm in Kerouac's car, quietly hitting the roadlike ******* hit his canvas.

I see great ******* every dayon the bus that takes me home,but not one single ***** for me to lay my ear on. The dream comes to a crossroad where me and Jack have to part ways.He'll go down in history like a great writer and I'll quietly go down on memory lane in oblivion.

Memory disappointed me and left a bad taste in my mouth - literary ******* ain't what it used to be.

He wasn't afraid of the sky,but of the earth in which he dreamt every night of falling.

He knew no angels, no devils,He was in a perfect balance between heaven and hell,stranded upside down, in a reversed world,waiting for all things to happen or to end.

He was incinerated.

He then was stuffed inside some crackers and got to fill the sky one more time with his explosive personality on July 4th, before falling on everybody and then into the ground he so much feared and hated.

even though there's nothing left in the bottle,it is you that feels empty,transparent, frail,like an eggshell that your mother found in the chicken that your father killed,that didn't have the chance of the frying pan at least.

you drank it all.alone.no Juliet around, no Shakespeare no talent,no tale.

you drank it all.alone.no strippers,no angels,no thieves!

you drank it all.

some may call it messianic delusion syndrome,but I call it..cheap Chardonnay.

I think that I might've been wrong this whole timeand that all my life's been an endless road of false imageryabout myself and the ones surrounding me.

Everyone's sayin' these days:"just do your thing!""be more egotistic!""risk it!""live a little!""give less ***** about what others think!""you're on your own!""don't get involved in other's lives, as they don't get involved in yours"and I seem more and more confused,not getting any of the words they're sayin';feeling silly all of a sudden... like I imagine some people in those pictures or videos where they put a black box over someone's eyes.

I feel like I've been livin' as a small, odorless flower in a big garden, all a long waiting for the right gardener to thin out the seedlings around me and nowI've ended up alone in the most beautiful vase,in the house of the most gifted perfume creator,that normally feels every bird ****,but now feels nothing.

Just your regular Friday.Trapped in a poorly lit elevator with three other strangers.

The only things they have in common are that they’re all wearing red shoes, and that they’re all going up.Everyone is listening to their own music - a weird mix of rap, rock, indie and folk that sounds great played in the same time.

No one knows where they’ll get off the elevator, at what storey, nor if they’ll take a left or right afterwards. It’s all a mystery.

The first couple of floors pass easily, maybe someone even cracks a joke or makes a funny comment and they all smile at their mirror reflection.

Suddenly, the elevator clutches between floors and they get to see their faces for the first time.They are mesmerized. Although they have nothing in common besides the red shoes,They feel as if they are doppelgangers on the inside;

They wake up in each-other’s heads and it all feels comfortable for a while,The chairs are cosy and the food is great!

The mirrors disappear and they start to see the world from above.they realise that there’s no insurance,and that they’re suspended in mid-air, half way between the earth and the sky,a band of unknown,4 complete strangers,everyone trying to act cool,posing for an imaginary sub-genre cover album photo,that no one will get to listen to.

Minutes pass and they become hours, sky becomes seaand clouds vanish.They get tired of looking out the windowand all the windows look tired of looking out of them.

Someone finds a door and opens it. He looks at the others, waves, then jumps. They’ll never know if he drowned, got burned in the atmosphere or ended up on the good side of the freshly buttered toast.

One of the remaining three starts taking selfies, Smiling at his virtual image, not being bothered at all that the image doesn’t smile back,being convinced that, in this way, he’s slowly becoming part of a special form of theatre, with a smiling/sad face construction,a bipolar bear with the heart of an eagle.

The second one starts writing nervously on the walls;endless lines of pathetic reality;a combination of feelings, lies, email passwords, social media security questions and lots and lots of sophistry… everything intended to serve as a rock-solid personal legacy after the elevator’s presumed crash.

The third one gets locked in his own head,carefully observing all of them,gazing in the blank,with his headphones still in his ears, but with no music on,no plan in his mind,no clean underwear,no purpose at the end of the journey,no solution,no answer for any of the police’s questions,trapped in an elevator like a great idea in somebody’s head,in a brain crack situation.

He is all alone,humming sad chick tunes,slowly losing his wit and grit.

The elevator walls reappear, and he is now going up again,by himself, slowly,surrounded by three pairs of red shoesthat were made for walking,but are now floating around the universe, half-way between God and Darwin.

I just felt like writing and the world suddenly had no boundaries for meand no one was looking and the beach was the only onethat could support my feet; and all those beautiful women were starring in the big fat blue, not saying a thing, not knowing what to do,not wanting to cry, nor to laugh..

but I guess this is what good music does to you - it sends signals down your spine and, in a second, you forget where you are and what you're trying to accomplish - you get to the point where you think you are a mother ******* rock star!You have no worries and you know that you can play the hell out of a guitar, on the day before the big show!But.. when the crowd goes wild and all of those eyes are having an ear on you,your cave - you become one with the guitar case - full of sounds and, yet, so silent,dark like an empty egg shell, cursed to know what life is but unable to show it to others.

There is no wine, no wining, no glass eye, no groupies, no ice in your bucket list!

You are all alone and suddenly the world feels part of you.

There was a time when I felt bad for people that didn't need that from me - simple, single, solitary people, that couldn't feel a thing and that couldn't care less if some arrogant *****,some.. some cocky presumptuous strangerwas thinking unhappy thoughts about them.

I just wanted to write but all I did was get farther away from what I needed.

Now it's time to save the word world!Yes!It's time to synchronize our watches and go naked out there, with our ***** and ******* free,uncovered by our own self consciousness and big little lies!

Even though the sun "goes up and down", every day, in the same way, we always seem to be surprised by its trajectory and every picture we take of it looks different because it mirrors a slightly changed self.

every 5 minutes, hundreds of photographs of this back and forth movement are being uploaded on the Internet, generating a Polaroid exhibition of repetitive lies.

small pieces of your memory will end up on people's profile pictures (the full black ones are small parts of your Nick Cave t-shirt).

they'll suddenly remember that you once existed and that they had the honor of not picking up YOUR phone calls. they'll share all your favorite songs on their side of the wall, saying this and that and how you inspired them through your nonsense.they'll hashtag your big fat *** with that special #RIP *******, knowing that you haven't slept well in a while.

Phase 2.Something's missing.

that's what they'll say after a couple of months,when they'll look at the empty places in their bookcases and realize that, indeed, it wasn't a good idea to lend their books to a depressed as **** *******.

they'll go online and order new booksand try to forget your absence;your song will be played again.you'll be an echo one more time, water under their bridge,a white paint mark that they leave behind on the road,on their way to the seaside,a decent line in a Romanian new wave movie that makes them smile for a second and then, after the screening's over, try to remember..

you had the choice of carving smiles into stone orthat of throwing stones into smiles.what do you think people saw?

Phase 0.**

you don't have to live a great life. you just have to die a simple death.

We'll never be able to change the worldWe don't even have the means to change our ******* wallpaper!

We are protesting against all the unfair things that our government is doing,in the same way we go to church: preachers and inciters, daily,some of us do it on Sunday, others only when a big religious event comes around the corner; some of us never go, and only end up thinking about it before going to bed, alone, in our room, in the dark.

We seldom forget that we came to this world with the only mission of making ourselves unforgettable.

We have mixed feelings about all the calls to action that we stumble upon in the ***** wide web,we feel guilt and despair when it is too late and regret not doing the right things or doing them wrong,we are not model citizens, we are just fake peoplethat work from time to time as holy fashion models.

Forgive us for lying to ourselves when we're lying in bed, naked, isolated.Forgive us for not having a voice when the choir needed us.Forgive us for making excuses for all the bad excuses we had.Forgive us for all the love that you haven't had the chance to give us.Forgive us for not wanting to be forgiven.

we are not gods.you are not gods.gods are not good.

We'll never be able to change the world,but we're hoping to be the ones that are changed by it.

You're listening to random radio stations, on your way home,Thinking this could be the soundtrack of your day to day life..

A little bit of Cohen and some Cigarettes after *** would easily do the trick.

You're just another unknown genius, waiting to be discovered - an original copy of the "real deal".

Your parents must be very proud!You have that look.. you know what I mean? THAT look.

The ones surrounding you are nothing more than Extras in your daily 7 o'clock show, filmed in front of a live audience.

Your big break is just around the corner, hiding in some bushesand you must really feel smart right now, with your old and wise attitude, thinking 'bout the planet and all that ****,having the impression that you changed something in this world,on your way back from work..something else than this rusty game of useless words, that the rest of your family doesn't really care about.Your one man show is about to be moved in the better slotand you'll finally get to stick your face on a Snickers' bar campaign.

When real love kicks in..And I mean the R E A L deal, not the one thatTV shows present to you as being "part of life" in 23 minutes episodes!

The ****** up, messy entanglement that takes your heart,blindfolds it and then starts kicking it from the side,the parks, theaters and picnic one,the “please make me a sandwich while I take out the trash” one,the big-spoon-little-spoon-during-the-night one,the “we just visited your parents last month and I don’t feel like doing it again very soon” one,the fuzzy wazzy baby voicey one,the planes, trains and automobiles one,the “you snore so bad that I wanna **** you sometimes” one,the bad morning breath after a hard day’s drinking night one,the cinnamon flavoured one,the “not 8 years and a half, but 8 years and 7 months” one the one for which you cannot find words to describe it right.

We’re making movies that no one will see,about things that mean the world to us,at a certain moment in time and space, but that mean less than a rat’s *** to anyone outside our bodies.

We never regret the echo in the large hall,nor the words that OUR scarlett and OUR rhett say to each other during the 126 minutes long director’s cut –their tears are ours,their love, despair and hunger for life will be included in next month’s newsletter.

We’re making movies about those parts of our lives that weren’t played out so well.It’s our way of saying “sorry” or “thank you”.

We’re making movies that some don’t even call “movies” – intimate quantum leaps, inner fights between our bodies and minds. It hurts us, yeah. We’re not (all) made of stone.We, sometimes, get frustrated and don’t even know exactly why.

We wake up in the middle of the night,running the entire dialogue list in our head,sleepwalking through the entire movie, screaming at our non-suspecting sleeping significant other to be quiet and to get out of the frame,“cause we’re ******* making a ******* movie here and every ******* second matters”.

We’re making (silent) movies becausewe’re tired of all this noise,because that’s the only way we can have some “Aaaaaction” in our livesand some frames to be proud of.

We’re not making movies to prove that the world is wrong nor that we possess the ultimate truth. No. We’re not making movies to prove that the world is beautiful and that we know nothing and that that nothingness should tickle your funny filmic bone.No.

We’re making movies that make the entire world think that there’s something wrong with us,that we can’t relate to our surroundings in a healthy and normal way.

We’re making movies so WE can experience, in the most familiar way, the new wave long shot convention that YOU all hate and diss in the digital environment,as if your lives were made out of fast cut blockbuster shotsand not lonely, long walks through a dull park. Good for you, Max!

We’re making movies because we don’t wanna have to explain ourselves, like I’m doing right now.

Reality sometimes needs its own subtitle and.. ****! You know what? The truth is that we’re not making movies. We’re making moves.

Tried counting normal sheep. It didn’t work.None of them seem to have that je ne sais quoithat Eastern - European sleep sheep have.

Tried counting good and bad memories. On an invisible flip chart.Just like in my youth corporation.I presented the situation to my inner Earth, waiting for feedback and good vibes.All I got was a mosquito in my left ear.

Tried counting all the nights when I couldn’t sleep but I was never good with imaginary numbers.

Then.. I started counting all the “I’m sorry”s, “I love thee”s and “It wasn’t me to pull the trigger, your honor!”s,slowly falling in a pit full of alligator dreams, just waitingto bite on my neck.

Sleep made me weak. Sleep made me spill all the meds on the wooden floor andsuddenly, I started seeing the truth through a pairof 3D cardboard glasses.

All of these brave men and women are in a hurry.They’re anxious to get home and ******* before their significant others arrive, ready for a home sweet home experience,with fine wine and cheesy shows on the tube.

Life simply goes on in cycles, like a loop video on the metro CCTV.No heart attack spikes, no heavy breathing, no chance for a near death experience.

We are all obedient mother/father *******, waiting for the wind to put down the big old tree in front of our house, so we can have a hot topic on our Facebook walls.

Trying to be different, mostly in a verbal manner, is like performing **** with a ***** dolphin,in front of a tank full of happy sharks.

We’re all in a hurry,tryin’ to get back home and ******* goodbefore the significant part of our life begins.

‘t was nice till now. I’d be a sad fool to complain.There are others that deal with much more **** then I can ever imagine.There are happy homeless chums that don’t give a **** about sadness but, unfortunately,their madness is voicelessand, sadly, our ears get numb after 3-4 minutes of elevator music.

It was cool and everything but now it seems that you’re onlyshowing the back of your head, as you’re kneeling down in frontof everybody.

No spine. No dime. No nothing.

Death lies hidden in your breast pocket,just waiting to bite your hand or that of your loved ones,in a blink of a blind eye.

My inner black dog chased away the black and white catsand all that jazz is just not enough fora healthy restart of the brain membrane.

Get closer and hear me out. I’m speaking through my heart – this yellow bellow fella’s almost done.I’ll whisper and you’ll understand my stubbornness, like an unlit candle in the wind,like a simple quiet rocket/piano man,like the unlikely event of crashing in a brick wall.

‘t was nice.All the dreaming and drinking and smiling and crying and cringing inside my head. Oooooooh, what a match! The crowd goes wild and that’s so unlike them to do – clawless, fangless, white tigers.

You might not recognize this day as being amazing and wonderful and all,but trust me when I say that you’re in a blind spot right now and as soon as it will be over, you’ll see it. You’ll understand. Those were not drops of desperation but exquisite fine wine left unattended.

Hear the echo inside this caveman’s body. Look in this broken mirror and admit that you cannot see the eyes.

This generation of morons will stay put and eat macarons all day long. It’s just a burning house, as Robin nicely put it in his song.There is still hope for this silly antelope.There is time for the timeless universe that we live in.

You’ll eventually get tired of seeing everything backwards, of going against the stream, like a red herring in a Quentin T. dark alley.You’ll get tired and admit that you’re the ******* queen of everything wrong in this world.

The game was fine. We smiled and even cracked some jokes.The music was dull, but we didn’t mind. We couldn’t care less,as long as we had each other’s wallet.The artist was being tortured in the book andthere was nothing in our head and heart that could save usfrom falling off.What a bunch of nonsense you poured in our glasses, as the wine left them to enter our mouths, throats and bellies.By the end of the show I was drunk and sad,without any direction,without a meaning, a purpose, a goal or whatever fancy word you’d to use to describe my numb life.